A Boy Called Greg
by RosemarieCraig
Summary: Greg is 14, and he's fading into the background. Kept in the world of abuse from his military father, how far will things go until collision? Abuse Warning
1. Chapter 1

I've been locked in my room again. I hate locked doors. I sat on my bed, reading through a medical journal. People are always surprised when I say I want to be a doctor. They reckon my social skills aren't up to it. But I think I'm fine. I'll be the best doctor in the world, and then they'll all be sorry that they doubted me! And my father won't be so disappointed. If I can prove myself to him, then maybe he won't lock me in so much. I get top grades, but it's not enough. I'm captain of the lacrosse team, but that's a girl's sport. I should be into rugby or football, even something like cricket. But I wasn't. It wasn't fair! I won prizes, I skipped grades, I tried so hard, but he was never proud.

"Greg?" there is only one person in the world who calls me Greg. All the kids at school, my teachers, the older boys I hung around with, they all call me House. My father doesn't really call me anything, we hardly talk anymore. My mom called me Greg. She was speaking softly from outside my locked door. I didn't want her to know I couldn't come out.

"What?"

"Are you planning on coming down for dinner?"

"No"

"You're not eating enough"

"I don't care"

"Your father's waiting for you"

"Let him wait"

"So be it, you silly boy!" she wasn't trying to be mean, just trying to get my attention. But I felt the word cut me. Well, I would prove them all wrong! Gregory House will be the best doctor. I will be a good man. I have to be.

I woke up an hour earlier than I needed to get to school. I threw on a T-shirt and some blue jeans and snuck out of the house. I ran all the way to the huge school. It was probably the tenth school I'd been to in my school career. I arrived before the front door was open. My chemistry teacher always left the door to the lab open for me. And he was always there when I came in.

"Morning House, how are you?" the young man said as I dumped my blue rucksack on the floor.

"Okay thanks"

"Did you have a good evening?" he asked tentatively.

"Physically?"

"Primarily" he was the only one ever to have guessed my family's secret. Father always made sure that no one knew. He hardly ever hit my face, and anytime he did it wasn't suspicious enough not to be covered up by a 'fall' or a 'door'. I had to wear long sleeved t-shirts and jumpers, even in the summer. But I managed to hide it from everyone, even my Mother. But Mr. Leo saw a bruise on my neck last semester. He made me tell. But he promised not to tell anyone else. It was shameful. I couldn't be the kid who got beat up by his father. I couldn't be that too.

"I'm fine"

"Are your hungry?"

"A bit" I hadn't eaten the last four meals. I was starving. He handed me the sandwich that he brought in for me every morning. I smiled at him, my muscles aching from days of scowling. I practically swallowed the sandwich whole. "Cheers" I grabbed my bag and dragged it over to my usual desk by the window. Mr. Leo passed me the thick volume of AP Chemistry that I was studying and went back to marking papers at his desk. I became absorbed in my work, enjoying the patterns and combinations that became clearer to me as I advanced through the book. I may only have been 14, but I understood it all. But Father didn't care. I don't get why he's never happy. He treats me like a subordinate, like another idiot in his little army. But I'm not.


	2. Chapter 2

The end of school bell rang sharply in my ears. A spark of fear flipped my stomach and caught in my throat. Before I went home, I had to meet the boys. The boys aren't boys really, they're closer to men. One of them was waiting for me at the gate. He grabbed my arm and led me towards the empty warehouse where they hung out. He didn't speak to me the whole time. But that was fine. I'm used to being ignored. He pushed me aside, and I smacked into a wall and sunk to the floor. Rubbing the back of my head, I attempted to stand back up, but Dimitri put his foot on my chest and gently pushed me back down.

"House. You're late"

"I've got your money"

"Give it then" I pulled two hundred dollars from inside my pocket. I'd stolen it all from Father's safe. He thinks I'm stupid? He'll have to deal with it. I handed the money over to the man who had brought me there.

"Satisfied? Because I'd like to leave now"

"Oh I'm never satisfied, House, you know that."

"Can I have some more then?"

"You have more money?" I nodded at him, showing him thirty more dollars. It was enough for four grams of coke. He beckoned to another man, who took the money and gave me my drugs. I took them and stood back up.

"Thanks"

"See you next week, House. Don't be late" he said mockingly. I clutched onto the strap of my backpack and the little sachet of cocaine and ran out of the warehouse, the men's laughter chasing me down the road. I stopped just before turning onto my road. I didn't want to go home. It wasn't my home. I waited a few minutes, then trudged up the road, back into the house devoid entirely of happiness for me. Father opened the door before I knocked.

"You're late" what is it with people and being on time?

"Sorry" I wrenched the word from my lips. I didn't feel at all sorry. I just didn't want to cause another scene for my Mom; she hated it when we didn't get along.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

"Yes Sir"

"Then you can stay outside tonight."

"But... It's dark already" I said uncertainly. He grabbed onto the sign of weakness.

"Why should I care?"

"Can't I at least come in to get something to eat?" he grabbed my arm tightly, making me wince. He gives me a look that says, quite plainly 'I don't give a shit' then shoved me away from him. He slammed the door in my face. "Father! Just let me in for a bit! I'm really cold! Please?" I begged. There was no answer. I turned and let myself into the back garden. It's not like it hadn't happened before. I just thought... Maybe I'd impress him today. Maybe someday he won't be so disappointed. If I can just get one more good grade, learn one more language, one more instrument, one more thing, then maybe he'll be happy. I went right to the back of the garden and sat down near the compost heap. Compost gives off heat. I breathed through my mouth to limit the stench. A single tear rolled down my face, but I wiped it sharply away. I never cry. I'm not weak, no matter what Father says. It took several hours and the entire sachet of coke to get me to fall asleep on the hard, muddy floor next to the rotting compost.

The sun rose gently from behind the house. I got up slowly, stretching every cramping muscle. It had rained; I felt the damp over my right side. As I stood up, I wondered if he'd left the backdoor open for me. He'd done that once or twice, usually on Saturday nights so that I could get changed in time to be forced off to church. But it's only Thursday. I didn't hold out much hope. As I'd expected, the door was locked. I couldn't change or get something to eat or anything. A sudden burst of anger swept through me and I kicked out at the door, releasing a shout, a confession of my failings, a desire to leave my Father and just run away. I turn and sprint down the road, following the path back to school, my only place of refuge. As I ran, I could feel the wind caressing my hair; I could feel the weight of the last few weeks lifting wonderfully from me. I'm happy when I run. Running is the only thing that really makes me better, that stops me from getting depressed. I turned into the school and ran for the chemistry lab door. Mr. Leo opened the door for me. I glanced at him, mumbling a thank you, and headed straight for my desk, no small talk. I didn't open the book; I just stared out into space, wishing I could be someone else. Or just not exist at all.

"Are you okay, House?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" I answered evasively.

"You have mud of your face" he said, calmly. I scrubbed at my cheek, embarrassment and shame flooding through me. I went over to the sink at the back of the lab and bathed my face in warm water. It's so unfair. Why do I have to come to school each day, covered in evidence that I'm a failure? Why do I have to be such an idiot? "Listen, House. Do you want to go to the music room today instead of doing chemistry?" he knew how much I loved the music room. I nodded at him, and we walked together towards the other side of the school. He took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. As I flipped on the light, stacks of instruments came into view. I exhaled softly, heading towards the old piano and moving the piles of ungraded essays off the stool. I gently touched the ivory notes, their sound glittering before me, eager to begin, to form music. I started with Mozart, swaying with the music, my eyes closed in the bliss of the sound. All thoughts of my Father, of the coldness in the garden, of the drugs that still lingered in my blood were banished, chased away by the beauty of the notes. As I finished the piece, I realised that Mr. Leo hadn't left. I turn to face him.

"You are a remarkable boy, House. I'm so proud of you" I can't help it. I cry. He comes over to hug me, but I don't want him to. I'm not supposed to cry. Don't let him see me cry. Mr. Leo hugged me tight, and I collapsed into his embrace. No one had hugged me for years. Why was he proud of me? I was a failure. No one could be proud of me. Father said I wasn't worth it. Mr. Leo let me go, and I wiped the tears from my face. "Would you like to use the teacher's bathroom? You kind of smell" I laughed. After my wash, I felt so much better, able to face another day of the other kids. I still wore the same clothes. You don't wear the same clothes two days running if you want to keep your dignity all day. Sure enough, it was only minutes after the bell rang before people were sticking their legs out to trip me, blocking my path and laughing at me. One day, they would all be fat and old and broken, and I wouldn't treat them. And it'd serve them all right. They all think I'm a freak because I'm smart and sporty and musical and yet I don't have any friends. I'll be gone in six months, max. We've been here a year already. My classes all slipped away in a blink of an eye, dull, dry, inadequate, and the final bell rang again. I detest that noise and its connotations. It means structure, other people telling me what to do. It's the signal that I have to go home. As I walked out of the gates, a boy in my grade steps out from behind the wall.

"Hello Greeeeg" he extended my name mockingly. I tensed my body, ready to fight him, ready to take any blow. "I saw you, snogging Mr. Leo before school today. House and Leo sitting in a tree..." he sang.

"I wasn't-" he interrupted me with more singing. Other kids joined in around me, a chorus of tormenting voices. I turned away and begin to walk home, but the boy grabbed me and slugged me in the gut. I doubled over in pain. Still doubled up, I charged at him, head-butting him in the balls. He yelled out, clutching his groin. Another boy grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms behind my back, leaving me completely defenceless. I struggled, not ready to just give in. I did enough of that at home. He was going to punch me. He didn't care about regulations, or other people seeing. I could predict his every move. He was going to punch me right in the nose. Sure enough, the boy stood up slowly and came towards me, kicking his knuckles. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the fist as it came towards my face. A little girl gasped as the boy's fist hit my nose. I could feel the trickle of blood heading towards my mouth. Suddenly, overwhelmed with the same anger I see in my Father's eyes, I tore myself away from the boy holding me, drew back my fist and punched him back. Chants of 'fight, fight, fight' soon replaced the song. I was happy to oblige.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mrs. House? Hi, I'm calling about your son. He was in a fight... No he's not hurt... No. It looks like he started it, but we think he was provoked. We need you to come and pick him up. It's okay, we can wait. I'm not allowed to let him walk home, Mrs. House… Sorry… Okay, we'll see your husband in half an hour. Good-bye' I sat in the receptionists room, holding a tissue to my nose. I'm not looking forward to getting home. The worst thing was that Father was coming to get me. And the fight could easily disguise any injuries that I got that night. He had a free pass. I think I actually prefer it when he hits me, because then I have something concrete to go on. I hate when he plays games with me, making me think he cares then making it perfectly clear that he doesn't. I hate that feeling, that betrayal. But he only does what has to be done. If I was just less... pathetic, he'd stop and we would be a real family. It was my fault, very bad thing that's ever happened to me or my family is my fault. Maybe the answer is not to care, to distance myself from everything. I didn't want my Father to come. Half an hour passed quickly as I waited, palms sweating, for him to arrive. Father burst in, anger clear on his face and in his balled up fists. He sent me a flashing death stare, disgusted. I hate when he's disappointed. He wouldn't care, now, about the top scores I got in all my tests and homework today. He wouldn't care that I got picked as captain for the lacrosse team, or that I've been chosen to play the piano at a concert next week. No. He would only care about the disruption to his drive home, and the consequences of my actions. I stared at the floor, avoiding eye contact with Father, with the receptionist, with the principle. I concentrated on the physical pain throbbing in my nose. It was easier to think about the physical, it made the inside less painful. I just wanted it to go away. We didn't speak the entire journey home. Father completely ignored me, staring silently at the road. We pulled into the driveway, and he got out. I opened my door and stepped out too.

"I can't believe how stupid you are. How could you get in a fight? Why don't you just keep your mouth shut?" he shouted

"I'm sorry"

"Sorry doesn't cut it"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Shut up, you little brat! You know nothing, and it's time you got off your high horse and realised what a little idiot you are"

"I'm not some recruit in you little army, Father! You can't tell me what to do!" I shouted. I regretted the words the second they came out of my mouth. He's right, I should shut up. The slap hit my face almost before I had finished speaking. He held tightly to my forearm and dragged me inside, my face on fire, hoping that none of the neighbours would see me.

"Blythe! I'm back with your pathetic idiot of a son," he yelled across the house. My Mom comes from the kitchen, rubbing flour off her apron.

"Greg" she warns, seeing my Father's grip on my arm.

"I'm sorry, Mom. The other kid deserved it"

"Shut up" Father said, gripping my arm tighter. I looked into his eyes, and I felt nothing but dislike. He looked angry. He waved Mother away, concentrating on me.

"Sorry, sorry" I pacified. But it seemed to make him angrier. He swung me round by the arm to face him, pulling me up onto tiptoe to look directly at him. He took hold of both my upper arms, holding me in a forced shrug. I held his gaze for a second or two, and then broke it. I hate looking people in the eye.

"You will learn to respect me and my authority. You will learn not to cause me trouble. You will learn to shut up and listen to people who know what's good for you and follow their instructions" his growl turned into a shout, particles of spit flying into my face. "What do you say to me?"

"Yes sir. Sorry sir" I whispered the words grudgingly. He shoved me away from him, wrinkling his nose in disgust. I hit the wall, feeling empty inside; waiting for whatever punishment I was about to receive. I just hoped it didn't involve food. I was really hungry. I was always hungry. He ordered 1000 push-ups and the same number of sit-ups. I groaned inwardly. I'd be at it all night. No homework, no food, no reading.

I guessed right. It was almost midnight when I collapsed, panting, on the floor, whispering '1000' to myself. My muscles felt as though they were on fire. I went to my Father to tell him I had completed the task. I needed to go to bed. My arms and legs were shaking horribly. I asked for permission to sleep, but he shook his head, not taking his eyes off the newspaper on his desk. I groaned, almost ready to cry. He orders 50 more push-ups. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, begging not to be stretched further. Each push up seemed to burn a new hole in my body. My father sat at his desk, occasionally glancing at me. He seemed almost to gain pleasure from watching me suffer. I finished number fifty and stayed lying on the floor. He bent down to meet me, pulling my face up by my chin.

"From now until the end of the month, you will come directly home from school and go straight to your room. I will lock it from the outside. Someone will let you out ten minutes before school starts next morning. That will teach you not to get into fights on my time. You're not responsible enough to be allowed that freedom. In the mornings, you will run to school to get there on time. I've had you transferred out of that chemistry teacher's class. You will now be in the class below. Have fun with that" he hated that I'm smart. Smarter than him. I hated that he could control my life. When I grow up, no one will ever get to control me like that. Father kicked me in the stomach like a dog as he stepped over me and then waited by the door. "I'm waiting" I stood up and hobbled to the door. He let me go upstairs first and followed me. I hated him standing behind me. I went into my room, and he shut the door behind me. I heard the lock scratching shut from the outside. The attachment on my side had been removed. I couldn't get out. I felt claustrophobic, panic seizing in my chest. I cry out for my Mom. But she never comes. She doesn't know it's this bad. She just knows that Father is demanding, a military man. She thinks he's doing a good job, making sure I turn out right. I sat down on my hard bed, my muscles aching horribly, and rubbed the bruise that was forming slowly on my side from his kick. My head dropped into my hands, and I had to stop myself from crying. Third time this week. Don't be a baby House. Don't cry. My mind wandered back angrily to other times he's hurt me. Dropping me off at schools where no one else spoke English, telling me to grow up, telling me I was weak. The number of times he called me pathetic. Well, other people didn't think that. Sure, I'd been expelled from a couple of schools. But I was so bored. Unimaginably bored. Good memories start to creep into my head. The time he'd given me a real ham radio for my ninth birthday. But he'd taken it away when I started talking to people in different time zones in the middle of the night. He smashed it up. Told me how stupid and annoying I was, how much of a waste of space. I think I've started to believe him. I look around my room. It's perfectly ordered, tidy, with military precision. Posters of muscular systems, bone structure, the periodic table, stars and planets line the cream walls. It doesn't look like I live here. I guess I don't really. Only until I'm eighteen, then I'm out. I'll never speak to him again. Maybe I'll catch up with Mom sometimes. She's always been there, even if she's totally oblivious. The hours slipped by and I got to sleep, dreaming of fire and ice, dreaming of black figures standing over me, taunting me. I dreamed of my Father.


	4. Chapter 4

I had to follow the new routine to the letter for four weeks. I tried, I really did. But after school I got caught up in a discussion with one of the science teachers about molecular structure. It was almost four by the time I realised I was late. I don't think I've ever run that fast. I fell into my front door, unable to continue. A large hand grabbed me by the collar of my scruffy t-shirt, aged by years of dirty nights and difficult days. The hand lifted me off the floor, forcing my body to follow it.

"You look hot, boy. Been running?" he said, almost innocently, kindly. "I've got the perfect solution. Get the bucket from the freezer."

"No, Father, please" I begged again. I hate begging. But fear was intruding on my desire to appear strong. I could remember the stinging of the cold water, the humiliation as I was forced to… Father slapped my face and I reluctantly went to the freezer. He kept buckets of ice ready for these evenings, evenings when my transgressions coincided with Mom's night out. There were six buckets all together. I picked up two and trudged up the stairs. The handles cut into my palms, making my arms ache with the weight. I could hear the bath filling with water. I dread that noise. Father takes the buckets from me and tips them into the bath. The cubes of ice splinter and scatter against the sides of the bath. I shudder in resignation, protest and horror. My heart had gone dead. I will not register this on an emotional level. I will not register this on an emotional level. I cannot let him know how much it hurts. He is not allowed to see. I collect the remaining four buckets of ice blocks and stand in the bathroom, my head bent. Father made me strip down to my boxers. I shivered in the cold room, arms wrapped around my thin body. Father laughed at my fear, my shaking limbs. He put his hand on my shoulder and guided me towards the bath.

"I only do it for your own good. If you would just learn…" he whispered in my ear. I hung my head in shame. I would never be good enough for him. I stepped over the side of the bath and slowly pushed my foot into the ice. The excruciating coldness felt like knives stabbing into my foot, my leg, my thigh. I shoved my other leg into the water and sat down quickly. The stabbing continued across my body. I began to shiver uncontrollably within seconds. The pain was unbearable. I clenched my jaw tight to stop myself screaming. The first time he made me do this, when I was six or seven, I couldn't stop crying, begging him to let me out. He had held me in the water for ten minutes. Over the years, I've been made to stay in for over twenty. Father sat down on a chair to watch me shiver. He always watched me; I hoped it was because he was checking I wasn't in danger. But I've never believed it. As I get colder, my imagination shifts to a small Hawaiian island I escape to in my head when I want to stop feeling. When I want to avoid reality. On the island, the sun is warm; the sand kisses my feet as I walk along the deserted beach into the shallow, blue, warm water. But the water turns quickly to ice, and my desire to scream grows as my paradise melts in front of my eyes. After ten minutes of agony, every fibre of my body screaming in protest to the pain, Father stood up. He approached the bath and I flinched away from him, dislodging ice from the sides to float up to my body. He had this look on his face, an uncompromising steel glare in his eyes.

"Take a deep breath," he said, quietly. I could feel my eyes widen. I began to thrash around, attempting to escape the huge had that was descending on my rapidly rising and falling chest. He forced me down under the water as I took in a gigantic breath. The water stung my face, my hands. The icy sides of the bath were solid under my head. I struggled, trying to get up for air, for relief, to prove that I don't give up. But I couldn't fight his hand. I was running out of air, the cold snatching the breath from my lungs. My body relaxed as I passed out. I stopped fighting, half hoping that I would never breathe again. My head was pulled out of the water seconds after I lost the battle. I awoke, gasping in a massive lungful of air. My brain didn't seem to want to get up, and I vomited into the icy water and onto a pair of strong arms. Arms that had pulled me up. Father had not let me die. At least I was worth keeping alive. Or not worth a jail sentence for child killing. My head was spinning, trying to work out why every millimetre of my skin was covered in goose bumps. I passed out again, my head falling, coming crashing down onto the end of the bath.

I felt warm arms.

A towel.

A softer surface beneath me.

I slept.

I woke up wrapped in a towel under my duvet in bed. My head was groggy, heavy. I couldn't feel my extremities. I wiggled my toes, and the feeling slowly came back. My head was throbbing. I lifted myself off the bed and stood up slowly. My legs were shaking. I looked down at the pillow and saw a patch of blood. Touching my hand to the back of my head, I felt the congealed blood. I winced as my fingers explored the fairly sizable wound. Memories of the night before seeped back into my mind. The strong arms. The pain. The cold. I hate the cold. I cross over to my door, but found it locked. I needed a doctor. It was all very well wanting to be one, but I don't know a single thing about actually treating someone. I couldn't tell if I needed stitches, if I needed it cleaned. I didn't know anything. I banged my fists on the door, shouting out for Mom, for Father, for anyone who happened to be there to hear me. I yelled for a minute or so, then stopped. It was no use. Looking at my clock, it was close to four in the morning. They would be asleep. I pulled on three layers of clothing, my core temperature down far below what it should be. I sat on the floor, leaning against the door, banging a beat on it with my fist. I just wanted to get out of the small room. I could hear whispers from next door. Someone was awake. I hoped for my Mom. But then she would know. She'd feel guilty that she hadn't been there to stop it. But the problem was that I deserved it. I was pathetic and weak and stupid, just like he said. Besides, no one would believe me; we both hide it so well. I half hope to hear my Father's heavy footsteps. Sure enough, the person stomping down the corridor was at least twice as heavy as Mom. The lock on my door scraped open and I crawled away so Father could open it. He came into the room, his dressing gown covering his pyjamas.

"Do you need medical attention?" he asked curtly, not as though he cared.

"I don't know"

"Let me see" I turned and showed him the wound on my head. I could feel his fingers touching the outside of the cut, dislodging the crusted dried blood. He sighed and span me around roughly. He grabbed my chin and pulled my face close to his. "If you tell anyone at the hospital what happened, this will be nothing but a pleasant memory," he threatened. I nodded my understanding. Like I'd tell anyone. Like I'd let anyone else know how stupid and weak and pathetic I was. Yeah, right.


	5. Chapter 5

Father was ready before me, waiting by the door. I felt dizzy and strangely sick. I wobbled into the car, very aware that my Father was looking at me. I didn't want him to feel pity. I don't like pity. I especially don't want to make him regret punishing me. If he regrets it, next time will be so much worse. Father slammed his car door and started the engine. The warmth of the heating penetrated my bones, making me warm for the first time in hours.

"Don't go to sleep, okay boy" I pulled my eyes open, dragged myself up from the comfortable deepness that I had sunk into. "Keep your eyes open". If there was any concern in his voice, I couldn't hear it. It was dark outside, the street lamps lighting up the sidewalk. I closed my eyes again and sank down into the pain free world at the bottom of my mind.

"Greg. Wake up, come on, wake up" a whispered voice spoke in my ear. It was a man's voice. No one calls me Greg. Only Mom. And it wasn't her. I opened my eyes slowly, noticing the beep of a machine, white walls and green sheets. The room spelt of antiseptic. Then the pain came. I winced as I felt my head throb violently, the bruises rubbed painfully against the rough sheet. I looked to my left to see where the voice had come from. There was no one there. Slowly, painfully I turned my head to the right. One man sat in the chair, leaning closer to me. It was my Father. For a second, I allowed myself to imagine that he had said those words. That he had called me Greg. But I didn't want him to have spoilt the name that only my Mom is allowed to use. That only my Mom cares enough to use. I must have made it up. Chemicals in the brain. Lack of oxygen. There were so many explanations for auditory hallucinations. Father stood up and came to the side of my bed.

"They're coming back in a minute to take you for an MRI. I can't come with you. If you tell a soul…" he left the threat hanging in the air. I shrank away from him. I didn't want to have to face another punishment. At that moment, a doctor came into the room holding a clipboard.

"Hello Gregory, I'm here to take you for your MRI" she said with a smile.

"It's House" I corrected her gruffly. The doctor looked slightly taken aback. She helped me out of bed and into a wheelchair.

"You'll have to stay here, Mr. House" she nodded at Father before taking me away. I looked back at him. He glared at me, drawing his thumb across his throat. I turned sharply forward. The nurse wheeled me off for the MRI and soon I was back in bed, Father sitting in the chair beside me. The doctor checked my stats and took Father out of the room. They spoke for a few minutes, Father growing visibly angry.

"We're leaving. Get your clothes on," he said, shoving the door open, grabbing my clothes from the shelf and throwing them at me.

"Mr. House! Your son is not well, I have to insist that you stay"

"I have more important things to do. Get dressed"

"Stay there"

"Get ready NOW!" Father shouted. The doctor looked shocked at his anger, and I whimpered at the prospect of going home with him. The doctor crossed the room to me and carefully disconnected me from the machines and IV's.

"If you want to take him, I can't stop you. Just don't blame me" she said and left the room.

"Now" Father snapped. I got dressed, turned away from him. I could feel him behind me, his eyes tracing the patterns of bruises that circle like tattoos up my body. I zipped up my jacket, shaking slightly with trepidation. Don't let him see you're scared. Don't show weakness. Or you deserve anything he gives you. Father grabbed my arm, less harshly than usual, more like guidance than control. But I could feel the pressure of his strength building as we neared the hospital doors. We got into the car in silence. He didn't start the engine, he just looked straight ahead. I was almost hyperventilating, fear prickling every nerve in my body. Don't show fear. Don't show him you're weak. Father turned to me.

"I didn't tell, I swear"

"Don't you dare lie to me," he hissed, disappointment etched in his features

"I'm not a liar!" I insisted, desperation clouding my voice, "I'm not!"

"Then how did they know? How did they know if you didn't tell them?" he was almost mocking me. Close to tears, I turned away. They had known. I turned deep red, humiliation heating my face.

"I- I don't know"

"I do. You told that pretty nurse exactly what I told you not to say. You turned me into a liar, you forced my hand"

"I didn't!" I was close to tears, again. Why am I so pathetic?

"Don't you dare cry, boy. Don't you dare."

"I didn't tell" my voice broke and tears began to stream down my face.

"Get out of the car" he said darkly. "Get out" I opened my door and stepped out of the car, wiping away tears of injustice, of fear, of pain. Father got out too. I wasn't expecting that. He grabbed my arm again, and we began to walk. He walked quickly, and I was forced into a half jog to keep up with him. We walked for miles, out of the city, out past the houses and the leafy suburban streets and out into the forest. The air turned cold and darkness descended. The trees obscured my vision of the sky. The ground was covered in wet leaves. My feet slipped and I landed flat on my back, Father following an inch or two before letting go. The air had been knocked out of my lungs, my head hitting the forest floor with a sickening crunch. Father bent down, took hold of a fistful of my t-shirt and dragged me upright. I didn't look him in the eye, but stared at the floor. His hand flicked around to slap my face, and I didn't flinch. He slapped me again. And again, and again, and again, in precisely the same spot. I could feel my cheek twitching.

"You are nothing, Gregory House. It's time you learned that." He pulled me in close by another fistful of my t-shirt. Our noses almost touched. I couldn't look him in the eye, my insides wracked with shame and humiliation. "You disgust me" he spat "You are a brainless, spineless fool. You are useless"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry Father. Please…" I felt on the verge of another breakdown. He pushed me away and I stumbled back. He punched me in the face so hard I felt my lip burst. I brought my hand to my mouth, and it came away covered in deep red blood. He punched me again, and I felt more blood spurt from my nose. I gasped in pain. His fist made a third, a fourth, a fifth contact with my face until I gave in. I took a step back, hung my head and put my arms rigidly by my sides, assuming the position of a defeated soldier. Father took deep breaths.

"You really are pathetic" Father said, disgust tainting his words. "Stay here until the morning. Do not move from this position. I will know if you have." He walked away, leaving me outside as the night closed in around me.

"Father! Please, don't leave me out here! Let me come with you! I'll try harder. I'll be better, I promise. Just don't leave me here…" but he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

The hours ticked by, the darkness deepening. I didn't move an inch as the night closed in. My muscles were seizing, begging for movement, for release. It started to rain softly. My hair dripped water into my eyes, but I didn't wipe it away. My nose bled sluggishly and my lower lip leaked blood from the lump that was forming there. But I didn't move. I was scared. I couldn't move. I tried to tell myself I was doing it to show that I was strong, that I could follow instructions. But I knew it was just because I was afraid. All the things Father had drilled into me were true. I was weak. I was pathetic, I was stupid and I was alone. The cold and the wet spread through my entire body, making me shiver. I desperately needed to move, to flex my muscles. But I didn't. Was my life ever going to be anything more than a string of never ending punishments and disappointed glances? My head drooped with heavy tiredness. But the sun was beginning to rise. The rain had stopped. The shivers that had rocked my entire body had depleted. As the sun dried my clothing, growing stronger as the morning came I began to wonder if Father was going to come back. My body ached, but my mind was pulled towards the hopeless conclusion with every breath. He didn't care enough to come back. I was nothing, totally undeserving of love or attention. No one really cared.

I heard his footsteps before I saw him. I checked my body to make sure I hadn't moved. I couldn't see anything different. My arms were locked to my sides, my head drooping, my spine rigidly straight. He approached me, inspecting my position and thinking silently. He didn't acknowledge me.

"You have to be in school in two hours" he said "Come" I released my muscles slowly from their captivation. Every one cramped, sending spasms through my body and I cried out in agony. Father turned to me and grabbed my arm, half supporting me, half forcing me as I winced and limped beside him. He didn't scold me for my indiscretion. We did not speak a word in the hour it took to walk back to the house. He completely ignored me. He unlocked the door and shoved me towards the stairs.

"Get washed and ready. Clean up your face, it's disgusting." I limped up the stairs and went into the bathroom. There was no evidence of my ice bath only two days previously. Either he had cleaned it to cover up from Mom, or she had cleaned it, ignoring the evidence before her eyes. She would never confront him. I approached the mirror, nervous of making eye contact with myself, of seeing the scientific proof of my failure. There was blood streaking my face, my nose crusted with it, my lip swollen with a cut down the middle, split exactly in half. I looked away. The water ran warm from the tap, and I washed my fragile face. Blood mixed with the water, tinting it pink. After cleaning the rest of my body, I took a pot of my Mom's foundation and applied it gently to the blue, hand-shaped bruise that covered the right side of my face, wincing as I touched it. I managed to cover it up, at least enough to disguise its shape and size. I tried to smile, the fake smile that I used to accompany stories such as 'I fell down the stairs, miss' and 'I walked into a door, sir'. The smile stretched my lip painfully and I decided against it. I went into my room and picked out a new t-shirt, a green one with blue ribbing and long sleeves. Before I put it on, I looked down at my arms. Fingernail marks were engraved into my skin, surrounded by purple and black bruises in groups of five. I rubbed them slowly, trying to get rid of the pain. But I couldn't. I pulled the top on over the bruises.

"Time to leave" came the shout from downstairs. I grabbed my school bag and went down. I stood in front of my Father, looking at the carpet. "You'll do, just about" he flicked my fringe away from my forehead to look for bruises there. "You… you ran into the wall playing football" I didn't even play football. I nodded. Father opened the front door and pushed me out. "I expect you back here ten minutes after the final bell."

"Yes sir". He nodded once then dismissed me with a flick of his wrist. He shut the door and I turned away, beginning the walk to school. As I entered the school gates, I looked at the clock mounted on the wall. It was fifteen minutes before the first bell rang. He'd sent me early. I grinned, stretching my lip. But it didn't matter, I had time! I picked up a jog to the chemistry lab. The door was open, as usual. Mr. Leo was sat on his desk, surveying the room with disinterest. I knocked and he turned to the door. An enormous grin spread over his young face.

"House! You're okay!" he chucked me a chicken sandwich and I ate it hungrily. My stomach growled in appreciation. He looked at me closely, pulling me to him. "House, what happened to your face"

"Nothing" I said quickly "I ran into the wall playing football"

"You never play football"

"I can play if I want to!" I was getting annoyed. Why couldn't he just accept it? Everyone else did.

"I'm going to have to report this, you know"

"No! Don't, please! Then it looks like I told" don't tell, please don't tell.

"Listen, someone has to make this stop"

"No they don't, I'm fine"

"House, there's hardly been a day this year you haven't come to school with bruises or freezing cold or muddy. You have to let me help"

"Why? He doesn't do anything I don't deserve"

"What? How can you say that?" I blinked. He knew about my Father, but he didn't understand. It was simple, logical, rational. I deserved his punishment. I walked away from Mr. Leo to my desk in the back of the classroom, leaving the question hanging in the air.

"Don't tell" I said quietly, pulling a textbook from my bag and sat down, ready to work.


	7. Chapter 7

I knocked on my front door. No one had ever given me a key, it was just tough luck if no one was there to let me in. Father answered the door. He was over a foot taller than me, his hair greying, his clothes ridiculously neat. His eyes glinted with fury. He yanked me inside and pulled me up off the floor by my t-shirt so that our faces were level. The fabric cut into my neck, half blocking my airway.

"You thief" he screamed, less than half an inch away from my face. My ears rattled with the noise. I blinked. He had looked in his safe. "How did you know the combination?"

"I worked it out"

"You stole 200 dollars"

"230" I corrected him, well beyond caring what he would do to me. He threw me away from him and I launched six feet across the room, crashing into the bookcase. Thick, sharp ended books fell from the shelf and landed on me. I felt blood coming from my forehead, arm and chest, trickling down my skin. Father dragged me out by the leg. He stood over me, calculating. He kicked my stomach and I wrapped in on myself, protecting my head. He kicked again, his foot hitting my chest, my back, everywhere. He didn't stop.

"Please..." I said after a few minutes, the air knocked out of me, my body on fire. He had never been this physical before. Usually, it was distance, discomfort, assuming control. He had never truly beaten me.

"Shut up" he spat, kicking me in the knee. He stopped, grabbed my shaking arm and yanked me upright. I was panting in pain, and he had exerted himself beyond what he was used to outside of the marines. He punched me in the stomach, and I leaned over, gasping. He pulled me back up and his fist made sharp contact with my face, breaking my half healed lip. He continued to hit me until I passed out. Every nerve in my body was screaming in agony, blood leaking from numerous cuts. I woke up on the floor inside my bedroom door. I rolled over and hurled the small contents of my stomach. Shaking from head to toe, I pulled myself up using the bed. The mirror was on the wall, and I caught sight of myself. There was no way I would be allowed to go to school. Not for weeks. I wouldn't be allowed to leave my room, even, because there was no way to hide it from Mom. She would see the second she saw me. No hiding. My eye was sealed shut, blue and black swelling surrounding the socket. My lip was split wide open. Dried blood crusted my hair up, revealing a large cut on my forehead. Bruises covered my neck, arms and shoulders. I took my t-shirt off gently and gasped at the sight of huge black bruises covering my chest, stomach and back, a two inch gash across my left nipple. I took my trousers off, shivering in my underwear in my too cold room. My legs were covered in bruises too. There was barely ten inches of my body that was not black, blue or bleeding. I could hardly stand up. My breathing was limited, every time I moved I could feel the injuries. Very suddenly, Mom walked into the room, sobbing. No, he couldn't have hurt her. No.

"Greg, oh my God, Greg!" she cried, wrapping me into a hug. "Your Father told me what happened, he was so upset"

"He was?"

"Of course he was! He's down at the police station now, telling them exactly what happened. Do you need to go to hospital?" I separated myself from her and sat weakly down on my bed. He was at the police station telling them what happened. What did that mean? He was confessing? To what? He didn't kill me, and he was provoked. It was stupid to steal that money. Completely stupid. It was my fault. If he confessed then he could go to jail. Then his life would be over, all because I was so stupid.

"What is he going to tell them, Mom?" I asked quietly. She came to sit beside me, unable to take her eyes off my bruised flesh.

"Exactly what happened. That group of boys who stole the money he gave you. It was a lovely thought John had, to get something from you both for my birthday. But you should have just given it to them. It was silly" it felt like a slap in the face. He wasn't going to tell them he hit me. He was going to report a robbery. I couldn't help it. I started to cry. Mom cupped her hand around my head and cradled me close to her. I hadn't had peaceful human contact in weeks. I'd had to avoid her, caring so much about her opinion, that she would think me weak and pathetic and stupid too. But now Father had excused all my injuries. I didn't have to keep them a secret. So I cried hard into Mom's shoulder, the pain, the injustice, the hurt at being humiliated and controlled seeped out onto her blouse. She stroked my hair, offering irrelevant words of comfort. For the first time in weeks, I was secure, safe. I was almost happy, content in my mothers arms. No one could hurt me there. No one.


End file.
